The sun had not yet risen above the horizon, when Father Christopher
left the convent of Pescarenico, to go to the cottage where he was so
anxiously expected. Pescarenico is a small hamlet on the left bank of
the Adda, or, rather, of the Lake, a few steps below the bridge; a group
of houses, inhabited for the most part by fishermen, and adorned here
and there with nets spread out to dry. The convent was situated (the
building still subsists) at a short distance from them, half way between
Lecco and Bergamo.
The sky was clear and serene. As the sun rose behind the mountain, its
rays brightened the opposite summits, and thence rapidly spread
themselves over the declivities and valleys; a light autumn breeze
played through the leaves of the mulberry trees, and brought them to the
ground. The vineyards were still brilliant with leaves of various hues;
and the newly made nets appeared brown and distinct amid the fields of
stubble, which were white and shining with the dew. The scene was
beautiful; but the misery of the inhabitants formed a sad contrast to
it. At every moment you met pale and ragged beggars, some grown old in
the trade, others youthful, and induced to it from extreme necessity.
They passed quietly by Father Christopher, and although they had nothing
to hope from him, since a capuchin never touches money, they bowed low
in thanks for the alms they had received, or might hereafter receive at
the convent. The spectacle of the labourers scattered in the fields was
still more mournful; some were sowing thinly and sparingly their seed,
as if hazarding that which was too precious; others put the spade into
the earth with difficulty, and wearily turned up the clods. The pale and
sickly child was leading the meagre cattle to the pasture ground, and as
he went along plucked carefully the herbs found in his path, as food for
his family. This melancholy picture of human misery increased the
sadness of Father Christopher, who, when he left the convent, had been
filled with presentiments of evil.
But why did he feel so much for Lucy? And why, at the first notice, did
he hasten to her with as much solicitude as if he had been sent for by
the Father Provincial. And who was this Father Christopher? We must
endeavour to satisfy all these enquiries.
Father Christopher, of ——, was a man nearer sixty than fifty years of
age. His head was shaven, with the exception of the band of hair allowed
to grow round it like a crown, as was the custom of the capuchins; the
expression of his countenance was habitually that of deep humility,
although occasionally there passed over it flashes of pride and
inquietude, which were, however, succeeded by a deeper shade of
self-reproach and lowliness. His long grey beard gave more character to
the shape of the upper part of his head, on which habitual abstinence
had stamped a strong expression of gravity. His sunken eyes were for the
most part bent to the earth, but brightened at times with unexpected
vivacity, which he ever appeared to endeavour to repress. His name,
before entering the convent, had been Ludovico; he was the son of a
merchant of ——, who, having accumulated great wealth, had renounced
trade in the latter part of his life, and having resolved to live like a
gentleman, he studied every means to cause his former mode of life to
be forgotten by those around him. He could not, however, forget it
himself; the shop, the goods, the day-book, the yard measure, rose to
his memory, like the shade of Banquo to Macbeth, amidst the pomp of the
table and the smiles of his parasites; whose continual effort it was to
avoid any word which might appear to allude to the former condition of
the host. Ludovico was his only child: he caused him to be nobly
educated, as far as the laws and customs permitted him to do so; and
died, bequeathing him a splendid fortune. Ludovico had contracted the
habits and feelings of a gentleman, and the flatterers who had
surrounded him from infancy had accustomed him to the greatest deference
and respect. But he found the scene changed when he attempted to mingle
with the nobility of the city; and that in order to live in their
company he must school himself to patience and submission, and bear with
contumely on every occasion. This agreed neither with his education nor
his disposition. He retired from them in disgust, but unwillingly,
feeling that such should naturally have been his companions; he then
resolved to outdo them in pomp and magnificence, thereby increasing the
enmity with which they had already regarded him. His open and violent
nature soon engaged him in more serious contests: he sincerely abhorred
the extortions and injuries committed by those to whom he had opposed
himself; he therefore habitually took part with the weak against the
powerful, so that by degrees he had constituted himself the defender of
the oppressed, and the vindicator of their wrongs. The office was
onerous; and fruitful in evil thoughts, quarrels, and enmities against
himself. But, besides this external warfare, he perhaps suffered still
more from inward conflicts; for often, in order to compass his objects,
he was obliged to adopt measures of circumvention and violence, which
his conscience disapproved. He was under the painful necessity of
keeping in pay a band of ruffians for his own security, as well as to
aid him in his enterprises; and for these purposes he was necessarily
obliged to select the boldest, that is, the vilest, and to live with
vagabonds from a love of justice; so that, disgusted with the world and
its conflicts, he had many times seriously thought of entering some
monastery, and retiring from it for ever. Such intentions were more
strongly entertained on the failure of some of his enterprises, or the
perception of his own danger, or the annoyance of his vicious
associates, and would probably have still continued _intentions_, but
for one of the most serious and terrible events of his hazardous mode of
life.
He was walking one day through the streets of the city, accompanied by a
former shopman, who had been transformed by his father into a steward,
followed by two bravoes. The name of the shopman was Christopher; he was
a man about fifty years of age, devoted to the master whom he had tended
in infancy, and upon whose liberality he supported himself, his wife,
and a large family of children. Ludovico saw a gentleman approaching at
a distance, with whom he had never spoken in his life, but whom he hated
for his arrogance and pride, which hatred the other cordially returned.
He had in his train four bravoes; he advanced with a haughty step, and
an expression of insolence and disdain on his countenance. It was
Ludovico’s right, being on the left side, to pass nearest the wall,
according to the custom of the day, and every one was tenacious of this
privilege. As they met they stopped face to face, like two figures on a
bass relief, neither of them being disposed to yield to the other. The
gentleman, eyeing Ludovico proudly and imperiously, said, with a
corresponding tone of voice, “Pass on the outside.”
“Pass there yourself,” replied Ludovico, “the street is mine.”
“With persons of your condition the street is always mine.”
“Yes, if your arrogance were a law to others.”
The attendants of each stood still, with their hands on their daggers,
prepared for battle. The passers-by retreated to a distance to watch the
event.
“Pass on, vile mechanic, or I will teach you the civility due to a
gentleman.”
“You lie; I am not vile.”
“Ha! Do you give me the lie? If you were a gentleman I would soon settle
matters with my sword.”
“You are a coward also, or you would not hesitate to support by deeds
the insolence of your words.”
“Throw this rascal in the dirt,” said the gentleman, turning to his
followers.
“Let us see who will dare to do so,” said Ludovico, stepping back and
laying his hand on his sword.
“Rash man,” cried the other, unsheathing his own, “I will break this in
pieces when it shall have been stained with your base blood.”
They rushed violently on each other; the servants of both sprang to the
defence of their masters. The combat was unequal in numbers, and also
unequal from Ludovico’s desire to defend himself rather than to wound
his enemy; whilst the latter intended nothing less than murder. Ludovico
was warding off the dagger of one of the bravoes, after having received
a slight scratch on the cheek, when his enemy thrust at him from behind;
Christopher, seeing his master’s peril, went to his assistance; upon
this the anger of the enraged cavalier was turned against the shopman,
and he thrust him through the heart with his sword. Ludovico, as if
beside himself at the sight, buried his weapon in the breast of the
murderer, who fell almost at the same instant with the poor Christopher!
The attendants of the gentleman, beholding him on the ground, took to
flight; and Ludovico found himself alone, in the midst of a crowd, with
two bodies lying at his feet.
“What has happened? One—two—he has been thrust through the body. Who
is killed? A nobleman.—Holy Virgin! what destruction! who seeks,
finds.—A moment pays all.—What a wound!—It must have been a serious
affair!—And this unfortunate man!—Mercy! what a spectacle!—Save, save
him.—It will go hard with him also.—See how he is wounded—he is
covered with blood!—Escape, poor man, escape; do not let yourself be
taken.” These words expressed the common suffrage, and with advice came
also assistance; the affair had taken place near a church of the
capuchins, an asylum impenetrable to the officers of justice. The
murderer, bleeding and stupified, was carried thither by the crowd; the
brotherhood received him from their hands with this recommendation, “He
is an honest man who has made a proud rascal cold; but he did it in his
own defence.”
Ludovico had never before shed blood, and although in these times murder
was a thing so common that all ceased to wonder at it, yet the
impression which he received from the recollection of the dying (dying
through his instrumentality,) was new and indescribable; a revelation of
feelings hitherto unknown. The fall of his enemy, the alteration of
those features, passing in a moment from angry threatenings to the
solemn stillness of death; this was a spectacle which wrought an
instantaneous change in the soul of the murderer. Whilst they were
carrying him to the convent he had been insensible to what was passing;
returning to his senses, he found himself in a bed of the infirmary, in
the hands of a friar who was dressing his wounds. Another, whose
particular duty it was to administer comfort to the dying, had been
called to the scene of combat. He returned in a short time, and
approaching Ludovico’s bed, said, “Console yourself; he has died in
peace, has forgiven you, and hoped for your forgiveness.” At these words
the soul of Ludovico was filled with remorse and sorrow. “And the
other?” asked he anxiously.
“The other had expired before I arrived.”
In the mean time the avenues and environs of the convent swarmed with
people; the officers of justice arrived, dispersed the crowd, and placed
themselves in ambush at a short distance from the gates, so that no one
could pass through them unobserved. A brother of the deceased and some
of his family appeared in full armour with a large attendance of
bravoes, and surrounded the place, watching with a threatening aspect
the bystanders, who did not dare say, he is safe, but they had it
written on their faces.
Scarcely had Ludovico recalled his scattered thoughts, when he asked for
a father confessor, prayed him to seek out the widow of Christopher, to
ask forgiveness in his name for having been (however involuntarily) the
cause of her affliction, and to assure her that he would take the care
of her family on himself. Reflecting further on his own situation, his
determination was made to become a friar. It seemed as if God himself
had willed it, by placing him in a convent at such a conjuncture. He
immediately sent for the superior of the monastery, and expressed to him
his intention. He replied to him, that he should be careful not to form
a resolution precipitately, but that, if he persisted, he would be
accepted. Ludovico then sent for a notary, and made a donation of all
his estate to the widow and family of Christopher.
The resolution of Ludovico happened opportunely for his hosts, who felt
themselves embarrassed concerning him. To send him from the monastery,
and thus expose him to justice and the vengeance of his enemies, was not
to be thought of a moment; it would be the same as a renunciation of
their privileges, a discrediting of the convent amongst the people; and
they would draw upon themselves the animadversion of all the capuchins
of the universe for this relinquishment of the rights of the order, this
defiance of the ecclesiastical authorities, who then considered
themselves the guardians of these rights. On the other hand, the family
of the deceased, rich, and powerful in adherents, were determined on
vengeance, and disposed to consider as enemies whoever should place
obstacles to its accomplishment. History declares, not that they grieved
much for the dead, or that a single tear was shed for him amongst his
whole race, but that they were urged on by scenting the blood of his
opponent. But Ludovico, by assuming the habit of a capuchin, removed all
difficulties: to a certain degree he made atonement; imposed on himself
penitence; confessed his fault; withdrew from the contest; he was, in
short, an enemy who laid down his arms. The relations of the deceased
could, if they pleased, believe and boast that he had become a friar
through despair and dread of their revenge. And at all events, to reduce
a man to dispossess himself of his wealth, to shave his head, to walk
bare-footed, to sleep on straw, and to live on alms, might appear a
punishment competent to the offence.
The superior presented himself before the brother of the deceased with
an air of humility; after a thousand protestations of respect for his
illustrious house, and of desire to comply with its wishes as far as was
practicable, he spoke of the repentance and resolution of Ludovico,
politely hoping that the family would grant their accordance; and then
insinuating, mildly and dexterously, that, agreeable or not agreeable,
the thing would take place. After some little vapouring, he agreed to it
on one condition; that the murderer of his brother should depart
immediately from the city. To this the capuchin assented, as if in
obedience to the wishes of the family, although it had been already so
determined. The affair was thus concluded to the satisfaction of the
illustrious house, of the capuchin brotherhood, of the popular feeling,
and, above all, of our generous penitent himself. Thus, at thirty years
of age, Ludovico bade farewell to the world; and having, according to
custom, to change his name, he took one which would continually recall
to him his crime,—thus he became _Friar Christopher_!
Hardly was the ceremony of assuming the habit completed, when the
superior informed him he must depart on the morrow to perform his
noviciate at ——, sixty miles’ distance. The noviciate bowed
submissively. “Permit me, father,” said he, “before I leave the scene of
my crime, to do all that rests with me now to repair the evil; permit me
to go to the house of the brother of him whom I have murdered, to
acknowledge my fault, and ask forgiveness; perhaps God will take away
his but too just resentment.”
It appeared to the superior that such an act, besides being praiseworthy
in itself, would serve still more to reconcile the family to the
monastery. He therefore bore the request himself to the brother of the
murdered man; a proposal so unexpected was received with a mixture of
scorn and complacency. “Let him come to-morrow,” said he, and appointed
the hour. The superior returned to Father Christopher with the desired
permission.
The gentleman reflected that the more solemn and public the apology was,
the more it would enhance his credit with the family and the world; he
made known in haste to the members of the family, that on the following
day they should assemble at his house to receive a common satisfaction.
At mid-day the palace swarmed with nobility of either sex; there was a
blending of veils, feathers, and jewels; a heavy motion of starched and
crisped bands; a confused entangling of embroidered trains. The
antechambers, the courts, and the street, were crowded with servants,
pages, and bravoes.
Father Christopher experienced a momentary agitation at beholding all
this preparation, but recovering himself, said, “It is well; the deed
was committed in public, the reparation should be public.” Then, with
his eyes bent to the earth, and the father, his companion, at his elbow,
he crossed the court, amidst a crowd who eyed him with unceremonious
curiosity; he entered, ascended the stairs, and passing through another
crowd of lords, who made way for him at his approach, he advanced
towards the master of the mansion, who stood in the middle of the room
waiting to receive him, with downcast looks, grasping with one hand the
hilt of his sword, and with the other pressing the cape of his Spanish
cloak on his breast. The countenance and deportment of Father
Christopher made an immediate impression on the company; so that all
were convinced that he had not submitted to this humiliation from fear
of man. He threw himself on his knees before him whom he had most
injured, crossed his hands on his breast, and bending his head,
exclaimed, “I am the murderer of your brother! God knows, that to
restore him to life I would sacrifice my own; but as this cannot be, I
supplicate you to accept my useless and late apology, for the love of
God!”
All eyes were fixed in breathless and mute attention on the novice, and
on the person to whom he addressed himself; there was heard through the
crowd a murmur of pity and respect; the angry scorn of the nobleman
relaxed at this appeal, and bending towards the kneeling supplicant,
“Rise,” said he, with a troubled voice. “The offence—the deed
truly—but the habit you wear—not only this—but on your own
account—rise, father!—my brother—I cannot deny it—was a cavalier—of
a hasty temper. Do not speak of it again. But, father, you must not
remain in this posture.” And he took him by the arm to raise him. Father
Christopher, standing with his eyes still bent to the ground, continued,
“I may, then, hope that you have granted me your pardon. And if I obtain
it from you, from whom may I not expect it? Oh! if I could hear you
utter the word!”
“Pardon!” said the nobleman; “I pardon you with all my heart, and
all——” turning to the company——“All! all!” resounded at once through
the room.
The countenance of the father expanded with joy, under which, however,
was still visible an humble and profound compunction for the evil, which
the remission of men could not repair. The nobleman, entirely
vanquished, threw his arms around his neck, and the kiss of peace was
given and received.
Loud exclamations of applause burst from the company; and all crowded
eagerly around the father. In the meanwhile the servants entered,
bearing refreshments; the master of the mansion, again addressing Father
Christopher, said, “Father, afford me a proof of your friendship by
accepting some of these trifles.”
“Such things are no longer for me,” replied the father; “but if you will
allow me a loaf of bread, as a memorial of your charity and your
forgiveness, I shall be thankful.” The bread was brought, and with an
air of humble gratitude he put it in his basket. He then took leave of
the company; disentangled himself with difficulty from the crowd in the
antechambers, who would have kissed the hem of his garment, and pursued
his way to the gate of the city, whence he commenced his pedestrian
journey towards the place of his noviciate.
It is not our design to write the history of his cloistral life; we will
only say, he executed faithfully the offices ordinarily assigned to him,
of preaching, and of comforting the dying; but beyond these, “the
oppressor’s wrongs, the proud man’s contumely,” aroused in him a spirit
of resistance which humiliation and remorse had not been able entirely
to extinguish. His countenance was habitually mild and humble, but
occasionally there passed over it a shade of former impetuosity, which
was with difficulty restrained by the high and holy motives which now
predominated in his soul. His tone of voice was gentle as his
countenance; but in the cause of justice and truth, his language assumed
a character of solemnity and emphasis singularly impressive. One who
knew him well, and admired his virtues, could often perceive, by the
smothered utterance or the change of a single word, the inward conflict
between the natural impetus and the resolved will, which latter never
failed to gain the mastery.
If one unknown to him in the situation of Lucy had implored his
assistance, he would have granted it immediately; with how much more
solicitude, then, did he direct his steps to the cottage, knowing and
admiring her innocence, trembling for her danger, and experiencing a
lively indignation at the persecution of which she had become the
object. Besides, he had advised her to remain quiet, and not make known
the conduct of her persecutor, and he felt or feared that his advice
might have been productive of bad consequences. His anxiety for her
welfare, and his inadequate means to secure it, called up many painful
feelings, which the good often experience.
But while we have been relating his history, he arrived at the dwelling;
Agnes and her daughter advanced eagerly towards him, exclaiming in one
breath, “Oh! Father Christopher, you are welcome.”
